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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24115639">Bikes + Bandages + Ballads</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto'>impossiblepluto</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>MacGyver (TV 2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Hurt Angus Macgyver (Macgyver 2016), Hurt/Comfort, Motorcycle Crash, Parental Jack Dalton (MacGyver TV 2016), road rash, wound care</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 01:42:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,183</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24115639</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where the bike Mac was rebuilding during Season One is ready for a test drive.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jack Dalton &amp; Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>100</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Bikes + Bandages + Ballads</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This takes place some time after 1x08 but before the events of 1x12.<br/>Thank you Kailene for the title!</p><p>Hope you enjoy it!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Pulling the GTO into the driveway, Jack grins. Chrome and metal glinting. He revs the engine before putting it in park and hopping out. </p><p>“You finally get her purring? Today the day you take her for a spin?”</p><p>Mac squints in the bright morning sunlight, hands deep in the inner workings of the bike he’s been rebuilding, very slowly, for a few years now. “Maybe. Still needs a few tweaks but Bozer didn’t want her purring in the living room anymore. Said it was starting to smell like a garage. And he’s been a pretty good sport about… well, everything.”</p><p>Jack gives a small chuckle. Finding out that he, and more specifically Mac don't work for a think tank could have gone a lot smoother. Jack actually believed for a while, especially after they successfully hid Cairo and Nicki's death, that he might make it to the end of his career without revealing to Bozer what they did. Of course, he'd kind of thought it would be the end of his career that caused that reveal. Saving Mac in a heroic feat, making sure the kid made it home in one piece, and unable to explain how Jack lost a limb, or his life, at an energy conference, Mac would tell Bozer the truth. He hadn't planned on being awake, or alive, for that fall out. </p><p>But Mac is right, after the initial anger and feelings of betray that Jack can't really fault him for, Bozer's forgiven Mac. That's all that matters.</p><p>Jack snags an old chair from the open garage, checking to make sure it's not too broken or missing too many pieces before flipping it, sitting with his arms folded across the seat back. Sometimes he gets his hands dirty too, enjoying the feel of metal and grease, but mostly he sits nearby as Mac tinkers, offering the occasional suggestion or sarcastic comment. </p><p>“Motor oil and homemade cinnamon rolls are quite the combo.”</p><p>"Pancakes, actually. There's still some left, if you want," Mac offers absently.</p><p>Jack shrugs. "I had breakfast already."</p><p>"Blueberry."</p><p>"Oh, well that's a bit of a game changer." He frowns, "did you eat? These aren't yours are they?"</p><p>"No." </p><p>“No, you didn’t eat? Or no, these aren’t supposed to be yours?”</p><p>Mac rolls his eyes. “Blueberry. They’re clearly for you.”</p><p>“That was a sneaky side step of my question there, hoss.”</p><p>“He left me a stack of six. I ate half of them.”</p><p>Mac tends to forget food if he’s upset, stressed, knee-deep in a project, or there isn’t something readily available. Nightmares, bad memories, and illness also steal his appetite and in the last nine months, between being shot, Nicki’s death and subsequent betrayal, Bozer discovering what they really do and joining the Phoenix after almost being murdered by an assassin sent, apparently by Nicki, to take Mac and the rest of them out, they’ve been hard-pressed to find anything to tempt the kid’s appetite. They’ve had enough drama and betrayal to last them a while.</p><p>It’s almost worse than in the months following their discharge from the Army, between the pain in his leg and the guilt from an explosion he couldn’t remember but was sure he should have been able to contain despite what everyone told him, the kid wandered the house with a haunted look in his eyes that looked too huge for his thin face. </p><p>During one late night worry session on the deck in LA, Bozer confessed his concerns to Jack.</p><p>"He practically wasted away when his dad left. I remember his granddad talking with my parents about how to get him to eat more. Even dragged him to the doctor because he was getting so thin that they thought there must be a medical reason for it.”</p><p>Jack’s heart clenched at the vision of a ten year old Mac, so distressed he couldn’t eat, wrapped up in too much grief for his too young life.</p><p>“I wasn't supposed to hear about it, but what can I say? Sneaking around pretending to be a spy felt like preparation for the future, if I was going to write convincing intelligence gathering scenes for spy movies I should try to live them, right? I always carried snacks in my pockets and backpack after that, fruit and granola bars."</p><p>"Did it work?"</p><p>Bozer shrugged. "Some days. He carried around a backpack full of the snacks I gave him because he didn't want to disappoint me, but didn't want to eat them either."</p><p>"Sounds familiar,” Jack mused. He constantly handed the kid protein bars between IED disposal but often found them piling up in Mac’s gear. </p><p>"But then I gave him some cookies. They weren't great, but they were homemade, and he inhaled them. It's not just about food, it's about feeling like home I guess. I started learning to cook after that."</p><p>Jack smiles at the memory. Bozer, he’s discovered over the years, cooks when he’s stressed or worried or wants to show someone he cares. Mac’s been grocery shopping three times this week because Bozer’s run out of yeast, flour, sugar, salt, paprika, chili powder. The fridge is overflowing with more culinary delights than they’ll ever be able to finish. </p><p>“He chose to make blueberry so he just wants to make sure you know he’s forgiven you for lying to him for the last five years.”</p><p>“I don’t know, he might have forgiven you, but pretty sure he still blames me for dragging you into this life. Putting you in danger.”</p><p>Turning over his shoulder to face Jack, Mac raises an eyebrow. “You were going to retire when we met. Pretty sure I dragged you into this life.”</p><p>Jack shrugs. “Guys like me don’t really retire… probably would have been in Texas all of two weeks before I started itching to do something. You probably could have walked away. Been a teacher or saved the world from the safety of a lab or something.” </p><p>“Where’s the fun in that?” Mac stands, nudging the kickstand out of the place and begins wheeling the bike down the driveway.</p><p>“Where are you going?”</p><p>“Test run.”</p><p>“Hold up there a second, Evel,” Jack stands, following Mac down the driveway.</p><p>“I thought you were excited about me rebuilding this old motorcycle.”</p><p>“Yeah, back when it was just a twinkle in your eye. Not when it’s a fully functioning death trap.”</p><p>“You told me you had a motorcycle when you were in high school. About how proud your dad was of you finding all the classic parts and refurbishing them,” Mac’s voice raised, indignant. </p><p>“Hey, I am proud of you. I’m always proud of you. I’m not telling you that you can’t ride, but if you insist on giving me more gray hairs you’re at least going to dress the part.”</p><p>“I--I’ve got a helmet,” Mac stutters in surprise, lifting up the hard headwear. His protests softer after Jack’s quiet affirmation. </p><p>Jack shrugs out of his leather jacket, holding it out. </p><p>Mac smiles as he reaches for the soft leather, sliding into the broad, warm shoulders, and breathing in deeply. It smells like Jack. </p><p>With another small smile, he mounts the bike, kicks the engine into gear and it rumbles to life. </p><p>Jack gives a whoop of excitement, while Mac tugs on the helmet, flips down the visor with a grin, and gives Jack a thumbs up. With a rev of the engine takes off down the street.</p><p>Standing at the end of the driveway watching Mac zoom up the quiet street, Jack can’t help but grin. He crosses his arms over his chest that’s bursting with pride. That new muffler Mac designed is working great. He’d been worried about disturbing the peace in his quiet neighborhood, especially after the drama, gunshots, and bottle rockets a few weeks ago. Mrs. Schwartz had been beside herself, thinking that her two beloved neighbor boys had been murdered and she’s never been particularly fond of Jack. Suspicious of him hanging around Harry’s grandson with his leather jacket and fast cars.  </p><p>Mac spins the bike around in a move that would make most action heroes jealous and Jack unfolds his arms, clapping as Mac cruises back up the street, giving a wave as he passes the driveway. </p><p>“Show off,” Jack mutters to himself when Mac pops a wheelie.</p><p>The engine slides back into first gear as Mac eases off the gas, the rumble of another vehicle echoing through the hills. Mac checks his mirrors, craning his neck searching for the approaching car when an SUV tears around the bend, taking the curve way too fast and veering into the lane of oncoming traffic, right towards Mac.</p><p>Jack screams a warning.</p><p>Mac kicks the bike back into gear, gunning the engine in an attempt to dodge out of the way. </p><p>Tires of the SUV squeal. Mac twists the handlebars. </p><p>The other vehicle clips the back wheel of the bike, sending him into a tailspin. </p><p>Heart in his throat, Jack tears down the driveway, feet pounding against the pavement. “Mac!” </p><p>Mac wobbles dangerously, jerking the bike back towards center, nearly righting it again. </p><p>Jack’s breath stutters, feeling the vice on in his chest start to loosen as Mac regains control. Until the other driver overcompensates, nicking the back of Mac’s bike and the tires slip, squealing in protest, crashing against the road and spilling Mac onto the asphalt.  </p><p>He skips across the ground like a flat stone on a mirror lake. </p><p>"Mac!" Jack yells. The half a second of relief vanishes. He can't take his eyes off the accident. The bike spinning in one direction, and Mac's body skidding down the road. He vaguely recognizes the SUV continues as though nothing happened and in a few hours, once his heart slows and he knows Mac is alright he’ll care about that enough to go on a mission of vengeance with Riley's help, but for now the only thing he can focus on is Mac. His body slowing to a halt, sprawling against the concrete. </p><p>Jack’s boots burn rubber. Tearing down the street, eyes wide, watching for movement. He slides to a stop, dropping to his knees next to his partner’s inert body. The clear face shield filled with spiderwebbed cracks, obscuring his view of Mac’s face. </p><p>“Mac!” Jack hesitates for a second, hands uncertain and hovering. He can’t reach Mac’s pulse under the protection of the full motorcycle helmet. Hand brushing against the leather jacket before tugging down the zipper and pressing firmly against the apical pulse on Mac’s too still chest. </p><p>With the contact, Mac’s wheezing breath stutters and starts in earnest, lungs heaving with adrenaline. </p><p>“Easy, easy,” Jack shushes, keeping a steady hand against Mac’s chest and racing pulse, stalling his attempts at rising. “Just breathe for a second, hoss. Slow. Slow down.”</p><p>Mac reaches up, grasping the wrist that’s holding him down.</p><p>“You with me, kiddo.”</p><p>Mac groans but nods.</p><p>“Don’t move yet, okay? Anything feel broken?” Jack leans forward over Mac’s face, carefully easing the visor away from his face. Mac’s eyes are wide, blinking slowly with shock, but tracking his movements.</p><p>Breathing slowing, Mac takes stock of his body, eyebrows furrowing. “No, I don’t think so.”</p><p>“You sure?” Jack frowns, sliding his hands across Mac’s chest then down each arm, searching for breaks or displacements. </p><p>“Let me up,” Mac squirms under his hands. </p><p>Jack sighs and relents, helping a struggling Mac to sit up. </p><p>Mac pulls off the helmet, shaking blond locks out of his face. Then bites his lip, sucking in a harsh breath, eyes slamming shut. </p><p>“What’s wrong? What hurts?” Jack leans close, placing a hand against the pulse on Mac’s neck.</p><p>“My leg,” Mac reaches down, licking his lips and breathing deeply, fingering the shredded remains of his jeans. “Not broken just… a mess.”</p><p>Jack whistles, peeling back a strip of the torn material over Mac’s thigh, exposing the bloodied skin. “That’s an impressive case of road rash.” The entire lateral portion of Mac’s leg shredded. “Can you stand?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Mac scrambles to rise.</p><p>“You think you need to see a doctor?”</p><p>“No,” Mac answers instantly.</p><p>“Can you think about it for a second before you answer?” Jack asks, pulling Mac’s arm across his shoulders and looping his arm around Mac’s waist, helping him limp up the driveway to the house. Mac’s lips pressed tight, holding back hisses of pain when the motion of walking causes the wounds to gape.</p><p>“Jack, the bike,” Mac stops when they make it to the walk that leads to the front door, resisting, trying to turn around. </p><p>“I’ll get it after I’ve looked after you.”</p><p>“We can’t just leave it in the street,” Mac leans back, searching for the vehicle.</p><p>“It’s not in the street, it’s in a flower bed,” Jack gestures back toward the road. “Over there somewhere.”</p><p>“Jack…”</p><p>With a growl, Jack turns, propping Mac against the side of the house. “Stay.” He says with a finger in Mac’s face before loping down the driveway, grumbling the whole way. He mutters an apology to Mrs. Schwartz’s peonies before dragging the bike out of the bush and dusting it off. He pushes it into the garage before returning to Mac.</p><p>“Thank you,” Mac says, draping his arm around Jack’s shoulders again and using him as a crutch. </p><p>“Yeah, well, you’ve used up your quotient for stubbornness today now, so you’re going to listen to me when I get you cleaned up.”</p><p>“I always listen to you.”</p><p>Jack snorts, hauling Mac into the house and pausing as he debates the easiest place to treat Mac’s injuries. “Sure. Yeah. You listen to me and then go ahead and do whatever you were gonna do anyway.” </p><p>“It’s called improvising. It’s part of my charm,” Mac says, directing them down the hall to his bedroom. </p><p>“Is that what they’re calling it now?” Jack mutters, kicking the door open, and helping Mac shrug out of the leather jacket, tossing it aside. “Looks like it rode up some,” Jack raises the tattered hem of his t-shirt and his fingers skim above the raw skin bleeding.</p><p>“Probably saved me from worse though,” Mac says, craning to look over his shoulder. “Sorry about the jacket. I’ll replace it.”</p><p>“Who cares about the damn jacket. Wish it had done its job better.” He eases Mac down, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Alright, hang tight. Gonna grab some stuff.” </p><p>He watches Mac for a second, making sure he doesn’t sway, that he’s not going to tumble to the floor before he heads into the en suite. Washing his hands then raiding the linen closet and first aid kit. He finds a basin and fills it, dousing several washcloths in warm water and sudsing half of them with an antibacterial soap. </p><p>Bringing his treasures back into the room he spreads some towels on the bed behind Mac to protect the linens then pulls out his TAC knife.</p><p>“Those pants are a lost cause anyway, dude,” he offers as an apology, before slitting the pantleg, while Mac grimaces. Peeling the bloody material from the wounds and shucking the remains of Mac’s jeans is an arduous process. It sticks to his skin, tugging on the wounds. Jack diligently works the material free, trying to shut out the tiny gasps of pain that Mac can’t quite contain behind pursed lips. </p><p>“Probably have you lay on your good side so I can pick the gravel out of your leg,” Jack instructs, and helps Mac scoot further onto the bed, laying on the towels.  </p><p>Jack echoes Mac’s hiss when he sees the exposed flesh. </p><p>“No offense, dude, I’m not trying to make a dumb joke, but the whole outside of your leg is like hamburger.”</p><p>Mac snort. “One hundred percent pure Angus…”</p><p>Jack rolls his eyes, settling on the edge of the bed, next to Mac’s hip. </p><p>“What? You can make jokes but I can’t?”</p><p>“I told ya, that wasn’t supposed to be a joke,” Jack says, wringing out a washcloth. Starting at Mac’s hip, he washes away dirt and bits of gravel. "This is pretty serious. That little Tiger Cub bike chewed you up and spat you out.”</p><p>“It’s called a Triumph.” Mac flinches at the pressure needed to clean his wounds. </p><p>“Nah, I mean it ran and you handled it well, but I wouldn’t call this test run a triumph.” </p><p>“I do wonder where they came up with the name.”</p><p>“Probably because it’s cute and it purrs. Perfect bike for you.”</p><p>"Not the bike. Angus,” Mac frowns. Jack can see the wheels of his brain turning. “It’s a weird choice.”</p><p>“You’re a weird, dude. Stands to reason your parents were a little odd.”</p><p>“Did my mom crave burgers when they were expecting me?”</p><p>“Maybe you were the result of a fancy steak dinner.” </p><p>“Ew…” </p><p>“A little <em> rendezvous </em> at their favorite steakhouse and nine months later their order is up?”</p><p>“That doesn’t even make sense.”</p><p>“It means they sneaked into some out of the way alcove and…”</p><p>“I know what you were implying… just… don’t…”</p><p>“Hey, you asked.”</p><p>“It was hypothetical. Just one of the questions I’d probably ask if I got the chance,” Mac winces and Jack isn’t sure it’s only from the soap stinging against his raw skin. He finds himself wincing in commiseration. </p><p>The kid deserves some answers. Deserves the chance to ask some questions. Mac can handle the easier ones like “what kind of name is Angus?” And Jack will handle the tougher ones, like “how could you abandon your son?” And maybe if the man can convince Jack that he deserves a second chance, he won’t break James MacGyver’s teeth. </p><p>Jack is a better man for having known Mac. Can’t imagine ever leaving him behind. He really loves the kid. </p><p>His boy. </p><p>He rinses another cloth, scrubbing Mac’s leg, trying to ignore Mac squirming under his hand. Not letting Mac’s discomfort keep him from being thorough, though he wishes he could speed through this cleaning and save Mac some pain. He can’t risk debris remaining in the wound beds and causing an infection. </p><p>“You doing okay, bud?” Jack glances up from his work, watching Mac’s face with a furrow on his own. Tension mars the skin between Mac’s brows and his lips are pressed firmly together. </p><p>Jack hates looking up and seeing those blue eyes shuttered, clouded with pain. If he had his way, the kid would never feel an ounce of hurt. </p><p>Mac reaches up and pushes his flopping hair off his forehead. </p><p>“You need a break?”</p><p>“No, just… just get it over with.” </p><p>With a nod, Jack turns back to Mac’s leg, trying to ignore the muscles that tremble under his touch, trying to hold himself still and not give in to the desire to flinch away from the hands that are causing pain. He hates that he’s the one causing this pain. </p><p>He squints as he picks bits of gravel from the wound, brows lowered in concentration so he doesn’t miss anything. Slow. Meticulous. </p><p>Jack rolls his shoulders, looking up again and scanning the room. He smiles. Pats Mac’s foot as he hops up from the bed and crosses to Mac’s desk before returning with a pair of glasses Mac uses for fragile soldering work, perched on his nose. </p><p>“No comments,” Jack points a warning finger at Mac, waiting for a moment for the smile to cross his lips before returning to work. </p><p>“They’re a good look,” Mac offers and Jack raises an eyebrow suspiciously.</p><p>“Yeah? Might steal ‘em. They’re nice for delicate tasks like this.”</p><p>Mac rolls his eyes. </p><p>Clean-up is still going to take a while. He wonders if he could have gotten Mac into some chaps, something for more protection. He’s pretty sure he still has a pair in his closet somewhere. But his heart skips a beat when he imagines leaving to find them and Mac, being his obstinate self, rides the bike anyway. Coming home to find Mac sprawled in the street. Bleeding as he crawls up the driveway without assistance. </p><p>He’ll just be happy that he insisted on Mac taking his jacket, protecting his arms, back, and chest. He lets out a soft hum of relief. The note triggers a memory and he absently continues humming the tune that’s been playing in the back of his mind. </p><p>The kid has too many scars on him. This isn’t the worst. Not by far. It’s painful, but as long as Jack is thorough, the worst will be over soon. Mac will be in for an uncomfortable couple of weeks as his clothes chafe the wounds, but he’s incredibly lucky. Maybe Jack can get him to borrow a pair of loose basketball shorts that won’t irritate his wounds. He’s already got a supply of Jack’s sweatpants and t-shirts hidden away in his closet. </p><p>It’s going to leave some impressive scarring. </p><p>If Jack has his way, there wouldn’t be a single scar on Mac’s skin. Each one feels like a personal failure. A statement of his inadequacy. Proof of his inability to keep Mac safe. If he stares at them too long he’ll probably break down and cry. </p><p>Jack shuffles further down the bed, to reach the lower portion of Mac’s leg. His hand lands on Mac’s knee. “Can you move this okay?”</p><p>He manipulates the joint, examining it for injury as he cleans the skin. </p><p>Mac nods, covering a small wince. At Jack’s suspicious look he responds. “It pulls a little bit, but it’s just superficial damage.”</p><p>Jack continues humming as he walks Mac’s knee and hip through a few more exercises, assessing range of motion before deciding that he’s satisfied and picking up a fresh washcloth. Mac is going to be limping around the house for a week or two. Not that he'll let it stop him. Even on crutches a few years ago he was zipping between rooms and projects like a twelve year old on a sugar high, performing acrobatic feats as he balanced on one leg and swung his body between the crutches, driving Jack crazy with worry that he'd fall and breaks something else.</p><p>Now he'll just worry about the wounds getting infected between dressing changes, and watch Mac hobble up the stairs to the deck, insisting he can do it himself and doesn't need assistance. Collapsing painfully on the couch, the motion pulling on the raw skin.</p><p>He wishes, not for the first time, that he could hide Mac away in some warm, safe place. He wouldn’t give up Mac for anything, but the idea of having him tucked away somewhere safe, away from this life is appealing.</p><p>He feels the kid slowly relaxing under his hands. Relief floods through Jack as the tension drains from Mac. It’s, unfortunately, a familiar routine for them, Jack cleaning up Mac after a mission gone wrong. Somehow despite the pain Jack has to inflict, Mac trusts him. Finds solace in his hands and ministrations. The faith Mac has in him steals his breath sometimes. Despite everything he’s been through, the losses he’s suffered, he trusts Jack. Depends on him. Entrusted Jack with his life and wellbeing. It’s not a duty Jack takes lightly.  </p><p>Jack looks up when he feels Mac watching him. A small sheepish smile on the kid's face. One he’s seen a hundred times when Mac is surprised by and doesn’t quite know how to respond to displays of affection and words of affirmation.</p><p>These looks, after years of practice and diligence on Jack’s part, are fewer and farther between as Mac has gotten used to the idea of Jack sticking around. Someone he can count on. Worrying about him. Caring for him. </p><p>Jack smiles back. Offering nonverbal reassurance for whatever Mac’s brain is chewing on. He’ll speak when he’s ready and Jack can assuage his worries, or he’ll work it out himself and give Jack a full smile once he’s figured it out. </p><p>He turns back to his work, moving on to his next task, slathering antibiotic ointment across the abraded skin, wondering what brought on this particular storm of disquiet in Mac's too big brain. It’s far from the first time Jack has tended to him. Not the most serious injury or the most vulnerable Mac has been. </p><p>He hums again. Then opens his mouth to provide Mac with a distraction as he ruminates, vocalizing the song he’s been humming under his breath since he started cleaning Mac up.</p><p>“Oh…”</p><p>
  <em> Oh...oh...oh… </em>
</p><p>“Sweet child of mine…” It’s Jack’s turn for his brain to misfire. To reflect on the words with a slow smile. A little bashful, at first. He’s not sure why. Maybe startled by the blatant declarations of his feelings. But the self-consciousness that fills him melts away in a moment with the look of wonder on Mac's face and his grin grows wider. </p><p>The words are truth. They have been for years. Whether he says the words out loud or lets his actions speak for him. </p><p>Stays. Protects. Loves. </p><p>He clears his throat with a face-splitting grin and sings a little louder. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The song Jack sings is "Sweet Child o' Mine" by Guns n Roses. I know I've already used it once but I can't stop thinking about Jack singing it to Mac (or to Riley)</p><p>According to the Internet Movie Card Database (IMCDB) the bike Mac's fixing in his living room is a Triumph Trial Tiger Cub. </p><p>Apparently, it was confirmed that Mac was named after beef? I haven't watched season 4 but this was written before the finale aired.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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